


paint it white

by bluescat



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (Very mild), (with a little hint of plot), 31-33, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Comeplay, Creampie, Lace, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluescat/pseuds/bluescat
Summary: Soon, Noctis’ lips are red with all the kisses bitten into them and his eyes bright with mischievous sort of energy, like all those years back when he asked Ignis to help him skip school and sneak somewhere beyond the wall for the day. There’s a challenge in them, and a need for an adventure, for some sort of an excitement that he is more than ready to provoke out of Ignis, decorum and propriety be damned.Some things just never change, Ignis muses, fingers splaying possessively over his lace-clad waist and thumbs pressing into hollowed spots just above his hip bones.*Written for round 10 of Ignoct Spice-a-thon: lace, mirror + extra spice.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46
Collections: The Ignoct Spice-a-thon





	paint it white

"I do not quite understand why am I needed here," Ignis says, patiently following Noctis through the boutique, always just a step and a half behind. There are rows upon rows of shelves, racks and displays of clothes and accessories, and while Ignis is not against a shopping spree here and there, it’s not quite what he envisions doing in the middle of his work day.

"And why this, of all things, has been put in my calendar under _important_ , underlined and colored red. Are we expecting a textile uprising that needs mediation?"

There is a small chuckle coming from in between an impressively long row of neatly hung dress shirts, all in muted, autumn palette that Ignis can definitely appreciate. It matches the typical Lucian official attire, yet brings just enough color to amp it up from the traditional blacks, greys and dark purples.

"You are the royal advisor. You’re advising," Noctis mutters, clearly amused, his voice subdued by all the fabric between them. He sounds like he’s explaining to Ignis that water is wet, and it is certainly an experience to be on this side of such conversation, Ignis finds.

"I did not realize your garments are my responsibility too."

It pulls a slightly exasperated sigh out of Noctis, like he can’t believe Ignis wouldn’t let it go already—which, he really should know better, considering all the years they’ve known each other. "You're arguably the most fashionable person in all of Insomnia, Iggy. The least you could do for your King is to help him look _at least_ half as good."

Somewhere between one exchange and another, Ignis notices how their conversation—or perhaps mere presence in the store—starts garnering a bit of attention. People are respectful to not outright stare or follow them, bless them, but they cannot be expected to entirely ignore the king and one of the kingdom’s highest officials shopping around casually in the middle of the day, naturally.

The realization makes Ignis take half a step closer to Noctis, his voice dropping to a half-whisper. There is no need for even more rumors spreading around about them.

"I should argue it does not fully matter what you wear – being the king comes with its perks, after all. You have the ability to set the trends, no need to follow them," he remarks pointedly, eyes losing their focus on Noctis’ silhouette once they’re caught by a particularly nice, silk necktie. It is wholly inappropriate for the time of the day, but Ignis finds at least a few different uses for it right away.

"Does it mean I could show up in tomorrow’s meeting with Altissian officials in this?" He asks cheekily, in that particular way that already has Ignis expect something ridiculous before it even happens. Sure enough, just half a moment later Noctis emerges from behind the rack of clothes, holding a particularly ugly patchwork design up to his face. It briefly reminds Ignis of a table cloth from that very old diner that he sometimes used to get lunch at with his uncle when he was a kid.

"Certainly, should your goal be to make sure there are no further relations maintained between the cities ever again,” Ignis says, trying his utmost hardest to not scowl at the atrocity in Noctis’ hands. Gently but firmly, he takes it back and hangs in between other, more or less similarly garishly colorful garments, making sure it’s hidden from plain sight—if they’re lucky, the store employees will find it by the end of the week the earliest, thus saving the whole of Insomnia from the threat of seeing anyone wearing it.

When Noctis laughs at his reaction, clearly in one of his best moods, and ventures further into the store still cackling, Ignis decides to not hold a grudge. While Insomnia—along with most of the bigger agglomerations of their lands—already recovered quite a while ago, the life within coming back to normal after what could only be called a divine apocalypse, it has only been a little while since Noctis seems to have made peace with the events of the past. Ignis, having stood by Noctis’ side throughout it all: the good times, the bad ones and the recovery, feels like anything other than gratitude and appreciation for the glimpses of the old—albeit changed—light shining through Noctis would be wholly inappropriate. Even if it means making peace with seeing that ghastly fabric anywhere near his face.

As Noctis settles in the changing rooms with a whole array of garments, most of them picked by Ignis who ended up, as per usual, indulging Noctis in his wishes, Ignis settles on hovering in the area, ready offer his opinions and, much to dismay of the store assistant, bring a different size or color of whatever Noctis is putting on. He’s not quite sure whether Insomnia’s young king truly struggles with confidence and his image, or he simply takes pleasure in having Ignis look him up and down every now and then, (and Ignis does suspect it’s more of the latter, if Noctis’ general need for attention in recent times is anything to go by), but Ignis does not mind humoring him on this whatsoever. If anything, it makes the whole endeavor worth it, forgotten reports to write and calls to make be damned.

Sometime between one outfit and another, his eye is caught by a nearby section of textiles that are not what one would call an everyday choice of attire. His hands are gentle as they look through it, fingers feeling the various textures: some of the softest leathers he has ever experienced, shiny vinyls that reflect about every light in this store, richly colored velvets that manage to look both regal and completely outlandish.

But what makes him stop are the few lace pieces, tucked between an alarming amount of tassels and mesh garments of varying level of see-throughness. They’re delicate and intricate in the level of detail, woven into various floral patterns, and as he runs a hand underneath the material, he marvels how pretty it looks against skin, the lace hiding as much as it reveals.

"Didn’t peg you for the lace type,” comes a sudden comment, spoken in half-whisper somewhere dangerously close to his ear. Somehow, the warm breath swiping past his skin together with the lace slipping from his grasp makes Ignis shudder slightly, an impactful experience that is beyond comprehensible words – and completely unacceptable for the place they’re at currently.

I find it rather elegant,” Ignis admits, watching Noctis reach towards one of the shirts, thumbing at its collar curiously.

"Funny—it feels more sultry to me,” Noctis counters, looking like he actually _considers_ the garment. "Posing for a regular piece of clothing and somehow remaining acceptable while revealing more than summer vacation clothes. I guess it does suit you, in a way,” he adds with that particular kind of smugness that Ignis grew to both admire and fear – mostly because it typically meant there’s some sort of a wicked idea brewing in that head of his, one that Ignis will have to eventually deal with, no doubt.

"I shall not inquire in why would you think that, lest I find the answer offending in some way,” Ignis says diplomatically, turning his gaze at the armful of clothes Noctis brought back from the changing room. "Ready to go?”

*

Standing in the middle of Citadel’s auditorium hall, impressive in its grandeur and decorated with their native black Calla Lillies, for the first time since it has been rebuilt full of people, bustle and life, Ignis is only slightly hesitant to admit in front of himself that it’s one of those things from the order of the old world that he did not really miss.

Mingling with the crowd, entertaining small talk and paying attention to anyone who may want to speak to him—which is _a lot_ of people, as it appears the royal advisors are held in high regard when it comes to official gatherings—is simply _tiring_ to Ignis, every conversation weighing down on him even more. Looking at it through the perspective of a battlefield, where each politely casual interaction stands for a fight that needs to be won in order to survive, may be a bit of counter-intuitive, given the fact that such gathering is possible mostly due to the peace that has fallen over the world after the light was restored – but it helps Ignis to soldier through the evening, and surely there is no harm done through his personal thoughts when they’re kept to himself only.

He’s doing his absolute best to focus on a scarcely important topic of the current conversation between him, Altissian official whose name he can not recall and Lady Highwind—now the appointed envoy from Tenebrae—when his eye is caught, much like many people’s in this room, no doubt, by none other than Insomnia’s king. Emerging in the very centre of both the hall and the crowd’s attention, he garners the spotlight for a plethora of reasons – be it his status, fashionably late appearance or role as the host of the party, if nothing else.

Ignis though—Ignis has eyes more on the smaller details, something most likely omitted by the majority or, even if noticed, definitely not in the same manner that Ignis has. It’s mostly because of his strategist nature, always quick to connect the dots and analyze them, that it takes a whole five seconds to look over the whole picture of Noctis’ silhouette and pick it apart, much like he’d do behind the closed doors to every garment and accessory, one after another until there’s nothing left.

He’s wearing a suit jacket and slacks that do not belong to the same set yet match perfectly, be it the deep black color or the perfect fit of it, hugging Noctis’ frame made of rather delicate bones for a man and lean muscle thoroughly, tight in all the right places. The pants have even, thin stripes of dark grey, barely noticeable, creating the illusion of further lengthening his legs, and the jacket, is made of a fabric with a light sheen to it, making it fit for the festive occasion.

But it really is the shirt, only peeks of it shown where the suit allows it, that catches most of Ignis’ attention and makes his mind go positively _wild._ He doesn’t even need to think about it, the connection created on its own: it’s the same lace they looked at during their mid-day shopping spree, the floral, semi see-through pattern stretched against the canvas of Noctis’ skin, the light background giving spotlight to the intricate lacework.

It’s rather beautiful, Ignis thinks, admiring it where it shows in the wide triangle from Noctis’ collar to where the lapels of his jacket meet at the first button at the bottom of his ribcage. The next thought that chases that initial statement though, is one of sultriness, provocation and attraction, Ignis finding it very easy to imagine sliding that button through and pulling the jacket open, to glide his eyes across the lace-bound body, the even pattern broken where the dark nipples peek through the mesh.

He doesn’t realize Noctis has walked up to them until he’s already speaking, making his perfectly polite greetings with the Citadel’s guests and more or less ignoring Ignis. Briefly, he wonders whether his choice of outfit is in any way targeted at Ignis—and it really only takes a moment of paying actual attention, of noticing the glint in Noctis’ blue eyes as he discreetly looks at him with only the very corners of them, to find that yes, it is most definitely not a mere coincidence and Ignis should definitely feel challenged by it.

Nonetheless, Ignis manages to put himself together enough to smoothly rejoin the conversation – he did not train his whole life for this only to let his lifelong teachers—and himself—down just because of a _boy_. Even if said boy happens to be the king and, quite possibly, the love of his life.

It’s only sometime later, an hour, perhaps two—time flows differently when you’re on the verge of losing control of yourself and your desires, Ignis has found—specifically as Noctis leans over one of the catering tables to pick up a piece of conveniently small finger foods, causing his jacket to pull away from his body and reveal more of the lace-wrapped skin, that Ignis decides that he’s sort of had enough for one evening.

Being the royal advisor, also knows as the king’s right hand to some, certainly has many perks – one of them being it perfectly acceptable for Ignis to come up to the king whenever he only pleases and interrupt whatever the king and his company is doing at the moment. It is known that Ignis’ reason is always of a higher priority than anyone else’s—arguably even the king’s himself—and so nobody dares to question him when he walks up to Noctis, halfway through his fruit taretelette and listening to someone’s tale that seems much too long and boring, considering the state of his full mouth and wandering eyes.

He seems glad when Ignis steps in almost between him and the other person. That feeling only deepens when their eyes meet, whatever he sees there making the surprise and relief melt into expectation and, dare Ignis say, excitement.

"Your Majesty—a word, please,” Ignis says with a small incline of his head, maintaining the rather intense eye contact when he follows up with words that work much like magic in granting one’s wish, „It is quite urgent.”

"Of course,” Noctis replies swiftly, flashing a quick, tight-lipped smile to his conversationist, as if there is truly an emergency that cannot wait, the sense of urgency only heightened by that gesture.

It’s Noctis who follows Ignis through the auditorium, not the other way round – yet another exception from the rule that has people’s eyes trail after them, curious but not inclined to follow or ask. They walk, and walk, and walk, and the further they go, the quieter it gets, the fewer onlookers there are; and when Ignis takes a sharp turn right and then pushes a door open, Noctis almost stepping on his toes as he scrambles to follow, there is nobody there to see them disappear in the room, the door closing with a soft _click_ and locking with a second one following soon after.

There is barely any time for Noctis to question why Ignis would lead him to the bathrooms, of all places in the entire Citadel, but if the way he pulls him close and presses lips so insistently to his is any indication, he can probably already guess – and Ignis wouldn’t be able to deceive him even if he wanted to.

The thing is – he doesn’t _want_ to. He wants Noctis to know precisely how he makes him feel and what his little plan caused, the rift in his usually composed mind that’s filled with all the inappropriate thoughts, unable to be pushed back, too tantalizing.

And so Ignis makes it known in the way he pushes Noctis against the stone counters where a line of bathroom sinks is, mirrors behind his back and bright lights almost intrusive in the way they shine down on them. His frustration and desperation can be felt on the tip of his tongue, prying Noctis’ lips open and having him taste it all: the admiration, the need, the plea that may as well be a demand. It pulls a breathy moan out of Noctis, the sound barely escaping the seal of their mouth, and Ignis gets drunk on it, swallowing it down as he runs his hands down Noctis’ body, unmistakable in how they find the button of his jacket, nimble in the way they push it through the hole. When his fingers feel the lace again, it’s both just as pleasant as the first time and so much _more_ , the additional warmth of Noctis’ body, the way it hugs his silhouette, stretched tight around it, a truly wonderful feeling. His palms press to the lean muscles of his abdomen and then slide to the sides, slowly, like he has all the time in the world for it, like there is not a party right there, waiting for their return.

Soon, Noctis’ lips are red with all the kisses bitten into them and his eyes bright with mischievous sort of energy, like all those years back when he asked Ignis to help him skip school and sneak somewhere beyond the wall for the day. There’s a challenge in them, and a need for an adventure, for some sort of an excitement that he is more than ready to provoke out of Ignis, decorum and propriety be damned.

Some things just never change, Ignis muses, fingers splaying possessively over his lace-clad waist and thumbs pressing into hollowed spots just above his hip bones.

"I do not recall recommending this garment,” he says, quiet, voice just above a whisper that still feels way too loud for this very narrow space between them.

"Not with words, no,” Noctis agrees, infuriating in how amicable he is, how pliant and expecting under Ignis’ attention, like he’s ready to take anything Ignis is willing to give him, starved for it.

"Do you believe it is appropriate, a king wearing see-through clothing to an official social gathering as this?”

And there’s that glint in his eyes again, like the blues somehow get caught on fire, licks of the embers reaching out towards Ignis insistently. But while the embers are just metaphoric, his hips are surely not, jutting out towards Ignis, rubbing a teasing, shameless half-circle into him.

"Why, Ignis, do you not like it?”

"I do,” Ignis says, because dear goodness, how could he possibly lie? How could anyone?

"Then what is the issue?”

It works like a charm, this whole ordeal of Noctis spurring him on, because the second those cocky words are out of his mouth, Ignis grabs a hold of him and turns him around, not even needing to use that much force, Noctis going willingly. The way his hips hit the edge of the stone counter has to be painful but he doesn’t show it, eyes wide and dark suddenly, so incredibly eager, so hungry in how they seek Ignis in the mirror right away.

Ignis runs both hands up Noctis’ body, watching their movements’ reflection, how they trace the lace, how their drag its delicate material when fingers claw into it a bit, ruining the perfect symmetry of the patters pulled over the tight muscle, hard bone and soft flesh of Noctis’ silhouette. When he reaches his nipples, dark behind the lace, they’re already hard, pushing against the fabric, Ignis’ nails catching against them and pressing in the way that dances on the very verge of pain. The soft moan that Noctis lets out at that, eyelids fluttering close for a moment, is very much worth it all and has Ignis pressing into him from behind, his hardening cock’s shape nestling itself perfectly against Noctis’ ass.

"Would you say a king parading around in public in such state is desirable?” Ignis asks finally, when they’re both ready to plead for it, should they ever need to; Ignis reaches with one hand to Noctis’ face, taking a hold of his chin and directing his head straight forward, making him open his eyes again, look at himself in the mirror.

"Look at yourself, Noct,” he says, nails of the other hand scratching down the front of his body, all the way down, past abdomen, the outline of his cock and under his balls where he gives a similar squeeze to that to his chin.

"I would not wish for anyone to misunderstand,” Ignis goes on, always on and forward with Noctis, never able to back out once they fall into each other; his words are heated just how his body is, spiraling into an endless circle of need and desire that can only ever end in one way.

"To get some sort of— _ideas,_ ” he presses into him again, squeezing his balls one more at the same time, something possessive entering his mind, something that loathes the idea of anyone looking and thinking of Noctis the same way he does. It pushes him to seek the zippers and buttons of Noctis’ pants, these extremely fashionable slacks that are also so ridiculously tight on his supple ass— _goodness,_ what an ass this boy has, Ignis never fails to marvel—and are an absolute pain to get inside of.

"Fuck, _Ignis,_ ” Noctis whispers, needy, under a clear impression of Ignis’ impatient movements. Ignis is very rarely impatient.

"Yes,” he says, an automatic response to the magical word that is _always_ on his mind, somewhere farther or nearer his consciousness, each time he looks at Noctis. When he finally moves all the unnecessary fabric out of the way and gets his hand on his flesh, he first grabs one side of his ass, fingers digging in its softness and _pulling_ —pulling hard enough for Noctis to clamber to his toes with the impact of it and releasing a gasp when Ignis lets go.

Ignis toys with him like that for a while, squeezing and prodding and drawing circles around his rim so delicately that it almost tickles Noctis, makes him squirm in Ignis’ iron hold.

"I truly could come all over you right now, paint all that lace white. White looks good on you, does it not, Noct?”

" _Please,_ ” Noctis pleads, all breathy and wanting, never one to be able to deal with too much necking before it gets unbearable, his own desires suffocating him from within.

There is not much finesse in it at all, movements rough and spastic, nor romance in how Noctis presses a packet of lube in Ignis’ hand—if it hasn’t yet been obvious enough, this proves how this _was_ the plan all along—and not a lot of tenderness in the way Ignis presses his slick fingers into Noctis, a little too quick, a tad too eager, making Noctis squirm before he eases into it. There is no time for gentleness, no room for sweet words and kisses; it’s pure need, a build-up of tension and desire that needs the quickest possible release, no matter how dirty, how immoral, how rough.

When Ignis fingers Noctis, it’s not really a foreplay as much as a necessary step, digits stretching that muscle methodically as he watches the reactions in the mirror, garnering Noctis’ response, feeling out how much is enough and when it becomes too much. That’s the thing with Noctis in bed—or whatever other place they decide to make intimate that particular time: all it takes is paying attention to his face, everything painting itself across his features, a constant open book to those who know how to read.

And Ignis happens to be extremely fluent in Noctis.

"Good?” He asks, short and to the point, when he notices some of the tension disappearing from between Noctis’ eyebrows, instead relaxing and bleeding into his jaw becoming slack, mouth breathing out a little heavier, the buildup of pleasure clearly back on its track.

When Noctis gives a mindless half-nod, Ignis pulls fingers out of him while pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, softening the discomfort; it’s a wet kiss, teeth worrying at the thin skin just under his ear, and Ignis is sure it makes Noctis lose his mind enough to not even realize how Ignis wipes his hand crudely into the flesh of Noctis’ asscheek. He continues that, tongue gliding along the very edge of his ear, giving a small bite to the lobe, breathing hot air into it, all the while holding him by the front of his neck, steady but not tight, enough to guide it back and forth, left and right, whenever and however Ignis wanted him – and yet keeping in mind to stay in the position where Noctis can _see_ them, see him, being ravaged and taken apart, more and more with each passing moment.

The sound of Ignis’ belt buckle is almost defeaning in the silence of the bathroom, _clink-clink-clink_ , until it’s pulled open, until it allows for his slack of the most classic cut to be pushed down just enough to free his cock, soft fabric tucked right below his balls that feel so impossibly tight with desire, it’s almost like he’s never had sex in the entirety of his thirty-three year long life. It’s such a relief to get rid of the restraints of clothes that it makes him exhale lowly, all but a half-moan imprinted against Noctis’ skin – who sighs in return and lets out the smallest of whines, so much higher than his natural, everyday voice, all needy and eager and _wanting_.

Just the sound alone gets Ignis going quite like nothing else in the world, every bit of him on fire, ignited by something as innocuous as a sound. He’s hard and itching and almost in pain through how much he wants to make Noctis his—even though he never stops being that, not quite—to nestle himself inside of him and become one. 

Sometimes, he has half the mind to be embarrassed about it all, about this heightened drive and inability to contain himself. But then he’s quick to realize that it’s the least they can do after being robbed of ten long years, torn apart by means way beyond their reach. Nobody will ever gift them these years back – so it is in their best interest to make up for it, however they find suitable.

In a very perversely subversive way, Ignis can’t think of anything more appropriate than this, the underside of his cock catching onto the waistband of Noctis’ slacks as he guides it between the enticingly warm and soft cheeks of his ass, the flesh soon engulfing him to the point of his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His entire body constricts at the feeling, muscles pulled taut and fingers of both hands _squeezing_ – one rested on the edge of the marble counter, cold to the touch in contract with everything else, and the other at Noctis’ neck, physically feeling the breath that gets caught within it in his curled palm.

Noctis remains amazingly quiet through it all, and only when Ignis jerks into him on the final stretch, bringing their bodies impossibly close, cock fully nestled inside, does it punch a moan out of him – a broken, raspy thing that could be both pain and pleasure, that Ignis would probably be concerned with should the situation be any different.

"Quiet, Noct,” he advises instead, half-request and half-order, hand shifting up, slowly, until it presses to Noctis’ mouth and clasps around it, pushing all the air and sound back inside. There is just no way he remains silent on his own through this, if this one sound is anything to go by, if the way he looks is any indication at all. Ignis has barely started and the image in the mirror is already a wreck — face flushed with pink that goes down down _down,_ coloring the lace’s background prettily, eyes bleary as they look back at him through the dark hair and body shivering slightly under the touch, like it’s already oversensitive.

 _Goodness,_ Ignis thinks, _I could stay here and just watch him for hours._

There is no time for for this though; no time for slow, steady and gentle, many minutes already past them and every next one bringing them only closer and closer to the point where somebody will look for them. And they _will,_ eventually, because nobody will take the king’s prolonging disappearance from his own event lightly, royal advisor’s company or not.

So where Ignis would typically take his time with it, not just for Noctis’ comfort but their mutual pleasure too, always finding the chase more satisfying than the catch – right now, he doesn’t. Instead of pulling out, toying with Noctis’ expectations a bit, keeping him on the edge for a while—he presses in, again, and again, _and again,_ with short and snappy movements of his hips that insistently push Noctis further against the counter.

The air fills out with their breathing, heavy on Ignis’ end, slipping through the seal of hand on mouth on Noctis’ one, and interrupted by the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin, joined by the repeated clinking of Ignis’ belt buckle. It’s a quiet, organic symphony of sounds that, although kept as low-key as possible in this situation, could no doubt be made sense of once someone really listened into it on the other side of the door.

The idea riles Ignis up even more.

"I need to admit,” Ignis says, hushed, somewhere into Noctis hair, near his ear, only for him to hear, "There is a part of me that wishes to let go and let everyone hear you—to let them hear what happens to cheeky kinglings like yourself when they push their right hand’s buttons one time too many,” the words are broken into small half-sentences, nothing like Ignis’ typical manner of speech, all proper and well thought out. They follow the erratic pattern of his thrusts—until he pushes in deep, as deep as the limitations of their physiques will allow it, Ignis climbing to the very tips of his toes with the movement and jostling Noctis’ body up too, up on the counter, his back giving up and folding him in half over the sinks. The hand from his mouth slips, and Noctis lets out a loud sound that is half-gasp and half-moan, reminding Ignis of a wounded animal, struggling for freedom.

" _Alas_ ,” he picks up after a short moment, hand back in its place when he follows the curve of Noctis’ body, leaning over him and fucking him further onto the counter, no doubt causing a few bruises to start blooming across his hips. They both keep looking at each other in the mirror, Noctis seeming like he’s drawing energy from the sigh of Ignis, and Ignis full of admiration at how perfectly imperfect Noctis is, what an absolute vision he becomes like this.

"Alas—I do not wish to share,” he admits with no shame whatsoever but with a great deal of effort when this new angle makes Noctis feel even tighter around him, even better; and it’s mainly that possessive thought, along with the idea of Noctis walking out of here marked on the inside by none other than Ignis himself, that fully does it for him.

When his hips snap into Noctis again, his balls draw in tightly in that particular tingly way that only happens just before coming, and then he lets go, not even trying to stave it off. His lips part in a silent, guttural groan as he spends himself inside of Noctis, causing him to keen into his hand, palm wet with the saliva and sliding in its hold, smearing the wetness around his mouth. When he lets go, cock still pulsing, Noctis is tired and panting and his red lips are glistening in the ever so bright bathroom lights, and if Ignis hasn’t been conscious of needing to keep their clothes intact, he would be pulling him around and kissing him senseless, to the point where he bruises, where he feels him with every word spoken out the next day.

As it is, even in the haze of an orgasm, they need to think about their current situation, and even though Ignis wants nothing more than to pull out haphazardly and let his cum trickle down all over Noctis’ legs, to watch and admire the white streaks painting his pale skin, he holds back onto it all. He’s gentle when he pulls out, mindful of how this wasn’t the most delicate of fucks, and Noctis takes a sharp intake of breath at that, tenses a bit, saying:

"Ignis—,” like he wants to warn him, remind him of their position outside of this closed room, but halfway through it realizes who exactly Ignis is and how it’s the last person on earth who needs to be schooled on any of it.

Ignis just smiles a small, promising half-smile at Noctis in the mirror, palm pressing to Noctis’ hole in place of his cock and it’s just a moment before the warm, sticky mixture of cum and lube hits his skin, flowing out slowly and making them both sigh at the feeling. He gathers most of it in his hand, the rest smeared into Noctis’ skin as he reaches around his body, maneuvered with his other arm back into an upright position and wrapping around his own, still ever so hard and heavy cock, silently begging for attention.

The semi-translucent liquid is perfect for the slip and slide of Ignis jerking Noctis off, coatingevenly the moderately thick, slightly curved girth of his pretty length. Ignis knows Noctis inside and out like this, knows just how to tug and pull, and where to press his thumb, when to add a little bit of his blunt nail, to make Noctis go positively livid in record time. He writhes against his chest, back arching and head thrown on Ignis’ shoulder when he comes into Ignis’ hand, the fingers a bit cruel in how they keep on worrying the head when it convulses with every next spurt of white, how they keep going even after Noctis runs out of it, after it becomes pain rather than pleasure and he has to plead, to beg, "Iggy, no more—”, gasped out like he has no more air left in his lungs to spare.

Noctis barely has it in himself to protest when Ignis washes his hands and then starts pulling his underwear and pants up for him, tucking him back inside the confines of the expensive fabrics, without so much as a single wipe of a piece of a toilet paper.

"That’s gonna be uncomfortable,” he complains, the displeasure visible in his eyes as they look up at Ignis, unhappy and expecting.

"It no doubt will,” Ignis agrees calmly, pulling up the zipper and doing the button for Noctis, not much bothered by the complaint. "It _is_ meant to be a punishment of sorts, after all.”

Noctis remains quiet at that, watching Ignis tuck himself in, so absolutely comfortable in his own skin and in their relation, no traces of doubt or shame or question in him. He rights all his clothes, eyes on the mirror, taking the time to make sure everything is in as much order as possible – and when he does, he gives himself an assessing look, nods his head and moves his gaze back to Noctis, eyebrows raising slightly. It’s a silent question, a challenge of his own for Noctis to undermine his decision, to try and argue it.

As expected, he doesn’t.

" _Fine,_ ” he agrees with a pained sigh, hands—finally stopped in their slight tremble—reaching to do the single button of his jacket, the show of his lace-covered body closed for anyone’s viewing pleasure. "I hope you’ll enjoy the idea of my cum-covered self talking to all these old men and women out there.”

"Do not be crass, Your Majesty,” Ignis chastises with a small swat to Noctis’ behind. But then he pulls him in for a deep, slow kiss, one that feels like something they’d share in the mornings, in the privacy of Noctis’ bed chamber, rather than at the tail end of a bathroom quickie in the middle of an official event. When he speaks again, it’s against his lips, words whispered directly in Noctis’ mouth, meant for nobody else but him.

"But also—yes, I shall enjoy that idea very much.”


End file.
